


Like a Casserole

by scioscribe



Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Manipulated Consent, Pre-Iron Man 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:08:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22219063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scioscribe/pseuds/scioscribe
Summary: Obie covered Tony’s hand with his.“Oh, Tony,” he said tenderly.  “You’re a mess.”
Relationships: Obadiah Stane/Tony Stark
Comments: 10
Kudos: 79
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Like a Casserole

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LearnedFoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Вместо запеканки](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22985899) by [littledoctor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledoctor/pseuds/littledoctor), [WTF_Marvel_Trash_Party](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_Marvel_Trash_Party/pseuds/WTF_Marvel_Trash_Party)



JARVIS had practical recommendations, gleaned from sources Tony couldn't even remember dumping into his system, for how to comfort the bereaved. Not exactly the abruptly orphaned, the unexpectedly handed a globally significant inheritance and each and every consequence of fucking that up, the already boozed-out-of-his-mind, but hey, nothing was perfect. One of the instructions Tony read, that everyone who came to his parents' wake ignored, was that you were supposed to bring food. Or, actually, they were supposed to bring food to him. He was supposed to be too grief-stricken to cook.

“Maybe I’m grief-stricken all the time,” he said to the microwave. “Maybe that’s why I can’t cook. Maybe subconsciously, I sensed that all this was coming, that a certain level of parental—”

The microwave beeped, letting him know his burrito was done.

When you were rich, no one brought food, because they knew you could just order catering. They knew you could afford a personal chef. They didn’t really guess that you were going to sit around eating shitty dorm food limp and hot from the microwave.

But hey, he’d pressed all the buttons in the right order. He had made, if not food, a kind of food-like substance.

He’d given a speech an hour ago, and he was pretty sure that it had been more or less coherent. He’d said some approximation of what a son would say when both his parents—

And then he’d done this. Mastered the microwave. Good for him.

“Tony.”

He was actually relieved to hear Obie’s voice behind him, because then he didn’t have to make sure this was really edible. He turned.

Obie was standing there with his hands on his hips, scrutinizing Tony with a sorrowful kind of pity. Clearly unimpressed by the gas station burrito.

“I knew you were here,” Tony said. “I had the house let you in.”

“I know.” Obie closed the distance between them, standing so near him that Tony could feel the heat of his body, could smell the cigar-smoke of his clothes and thousand-dollar cologne of his skin. It was a weirdly heady thing to breathe in. He tightened his grip on the countertop, his fingertips whitening on the marble.

Obie covered Tony’s hand with his.

“Oh, Tony,” he said tenderly. “You’re a mess.”

“You know what you could have done?” Tony said, not directly answering him. “You could have brought a casserole.” He didn’t think he’d ever had a casserole in his entire life. Cassoulet, sure, especially when he was in France. Fine dining. Fast food. Nothing in between.

“You don’t need a casserole,” Obie said. “Let’s get you out of these clothes.”

He undid Tony’s tie for him, his blocky fingers warm at Tony’s throat, loosening him. His touch flickered briefly against Tony’s neck, rubbing along there like he was trying to see if he could feel the five o’clock shadow bristling in yet.

He’d done that once when Tony was sixteen, sixteen and only shaving every few days: he’d cupped his hand against Tony’s bare cheek, his thumb hard on Tony’s chin, and said, “Smooth.”

“You’re smooth,” Tony said, like some kind of time-delayed parrot, and Obie cocked his head to the side, looking at him, and then smiled slowly.

“All right,” he said. “If that’s what you want.” He sounded like somebody peeling the gold foil off one of those chocolate coins, getting ready to bite into it. He bent down, and his mouth covered Tony’s.

He felt something inside himself stutter-stop, and then he realized what was happening, what he’d said to make it happen, and it felt like it would be impossible to take it back. _Let's get you out of those clothes. You're smooth._ He couldn’t take anything else from the last few days back, right? Why would this be any different? This was just—just tar that he was stuck in, alone, and—and at least this was something. At least Obie was cutting through the static in his head.

Obie tasted like whiskey. Maybe this counted as mixing drinks. Universally bad idea.

“That’s right.” Obie pushed his hands through Tony’s hair, tugging his head back in a way that opened Tony’s mouth up further, let Obie kiss him more deeply. “You don’t have to worry about a thing, Tony.”

He undid Tony’s belt and chuckled softly.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but this is one of those times it must be handy for you, all those years of fucking anything in a skirt—and almost anything without too, I’m guessing. Circumstances be damned, you want it. Hard as a rock.” He caressed Tony’s cock, and Tony heard a weird sound come out of the back of his throat, a kind of whine that snapped in two. “Nothing wrong with that. You’re made for play, that’s all. Playboy, boy genius in his workshop: perfect that way. Like I said, you don’t have to worry. I’ll take care of everything else.”

His hand sped up, working Tony faster, and this was really happening, he was really getting a handjob from Obie on the day he’d buried his parents, a fucking _good_ handjob, and he was going to come all over himself—

It felt like his face was on fire, and he screwed his eyes shut when he came.

Obie kissing him on his hair after that almost made him sag down to the floor.

“It’s all right,” Obie said again. He petted the back of Tony’s hair. “You needed a minute of feeling good. You know I’ll always look out for you, Tony.”

“Yeah.” His voice breathless against Obie’s shoulder. This was okay. This was what he did, in a nutshell—drank and fucked and got high, and if it was with Obie, it was safer, right? This was probably a better idea than any other sex he’d ever had, realistically. “Let me—”

He dropped to his knees.

“This isn’t a situation where you need to return the favor,” Obie said indulgently, but he was already unbuckling his belt, unzipping his pants. Crisply ironed black pants still with flecks of dried mud along the cuffs from the graveyard.

But ruminations on mortality, Sherlock Holmes-level attention to weird dirt details, that couldn’t possibly be his job in all this, right? He was the bereaved. He was supposed to be getting comfort, and his options were a now-lukewarm microwave burrito and Obie’s dick, so he knew what he was doing. He liked giving blowjobs, anyway. He would like this. Obie was telling him that he did, that this was all for him, that this was where he was supposed to be. And Obie was the only family he had left, so Tony believed him.


End file.
